My Guardian, Dear
by questionsleftunanswered
Summary: John's nightmares put stress on his relationship with Sherlock.


Every night the nightmares would harass John. He woke up next to Sherlock shaking, too hot and too cold at the same time. He tried to hold still, to be silent and considerate. It was a pointless attempt. Sherlock knew.

Seconds after John would wake up; Sherlock would be sitting upright and gathering John into his arms. At first, John refused. Every instinct he had said that he needed to pull himself together and stop being so weak. John wanted to run from Sherlock. He didn't want to give that part of himself up yet. It took months for him to be comfortable with it.

John could perfectly recall that first night he let Sherlock in.

_There is shouting. Someone is crying and someone else calling for anesthesia. The voice in hysterics is begging for life, God, and a girl named Amanda. The steadier voice is making promises that are obviously empty and untrue. More calls for anesthesia. They are still being ignored. There is a deep breath and a resolute set of shoulders. Tight pinching of the carotid artery; letting go means bleeding out. There is an explosion over his left shoulder. Mind is screaming _do not flinch._ The sobbing voice is slowing down and fading out. The young man has green eyes. Emerald green._

John woke up. Sherlock was straddling hips and holding his arms against his sides.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. Please stop. John, please stop," Sherlock begged. John's thoughts raced. _Sherlock begging?_ He sounded scared. _Why was Sherlock scared?_ John wanted to kill whoever made him sound so panicked.

"John, sweetheart, look at me. Please stop crying, John," Sherlock risked releasing John's right hand. Sherlock raised his left hand and pressed John's sandy hair away from his sweat slicked forehead.

John finally stopped jerking. He just lay still.

Sherlock didn't move off of John, though. He did release his other hand and cup the sides of John's face. Sherlock gently stroked his thumbs along the tiny creases that spread outwards from the corners of John's eyes. The barely-there wrinkles that hinted at John's age were filled with tears. Sherlock wanted to wipe all the memories of Afghanistan away. He wouldn't even wish them on Anderson.

From one moment to the next John was able to piece things together. Nightmare to waking up to Sherlock to tears fell into place within seconds. John squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have woken you up," John said. He raised his hand s to push Sherlock's away and rub at his eyes. "Can you let me up so I can go to the bathroom?"

"No."

"What?"

"I said no."

"Why?" Sherlock always let him go be alone when this happened. Why the change?

"I want to help you. I know I'm less than emotionally supportive, but I want to help you with at least one thing. I want to consistently help you with something that you need emotionally," Sherlock stated.

"You help me emotionally enough. Now let me up."

"No, John. I don't. I am selfish and self-centered and demanding and I care about work more than myself and certainly as much as I care about you. I devote almost all of my time to cases and the only real change in our relationship is that we're shagging. We don't do the things that normal couples do. I know it's because of me."

John knew Sherlock was right. Still, he offered, "We watch movies on the sofa and go to Angelo's. We take walks in alleys. As much as I enjoy walking in a park, the alleyways that only you know are fine as well. We've been to the theater. Sherlock, you don't need to do this. Please get up and let me go to the bathroom."

"No. You'll go to the bathroom and not come back. You'll spend the rest of the night awake on the couch because you know that closing your eyes again will just take you right back to where you left off. I'm not leaving you alone like that."

John could see that Sherlock was determined to reach this new goal. John still hated it. It was unfair to make Sherlock see him like this and remember every little detail. He knew Sherlock would categorize it and put it away, never to be deleted. John didn't want that to be part of their relationship. He also didn't want Sherlock to know he was like this. John knew that Sherlock was capable of taking care of himself, but there was still a part of him that wanted to be someone who Sherlock could depend on.

John knew he had no choice in this matter, though.

"Fine. I'll stay here tonight."

Sherlock didn't smile, but his face did soften to what could only be compared to the way a mother looks at a finally compliant child.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John's. He rolled over onto his own side of the bed.

John got up and went to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. He pressed his back against his side and slid to the floor. He felt like a foolish, teenage girl. It was wrong for a grown man to be sitting on his bathroom floor crying; even worse for a soldier. An army doctor; someone required to keep a level head when everyone else was creating the chaos.

John emerged from the bathroom half an hour later with a freshly washed face and hair no longer frazzled.

He sat on the edge of the bed on his side. Sherlock waited calmly, watching him.

He silently slid under the covers and let Sherlock wrap him up in his impossible limbs. Neither slept for the rest of the night; John for fear of his own mind, and Sherlock for worry of how rigid and distance John was in his arms.

The nights that followed were free of nightmares. Over the next few months, John only awoke three times. They were slowing down rapidly. John was pleased that they were stopping. He attributed it to the constant stream of cases that he and Sherlock were working. They hadn't had much time to themselves. A quick shag in between paperwork and the next file was as much intimacy as they had gotten in that time.

Sherlock noticed the change in John. He seemed happier. John was doing more little couple things ever since that night. Sherlock could tell he was making a conscious effort to do so.

John curled up against Sherlock when he was trying to read a file. Sherlock was surprised to find that he didn't mind. He rested the file on his knee and John rested on his opposite thigh; Sherlock's fingers absently stroking John's hair while he read.

John took his hand in the back of a cab. Sherlock didn't think it was restricting anymore; not having full use of both hands. Though the yard has always talked, John didn't care. Then he really gave them a reason to talk. Sherlock was surprised when holding hands in the cab turned into holding hands at a crime scene. The coughs and the stares bounced off the pair.

Sherlock loved the change. He wanted to be more for John and John let him. They had cases and a relationship and things were good.

Then the cases slowed down. They always did. Either Lestrade didn't get any high cases that needed more than the whole of Scotland Yard or the criminals went into hiding. There was always a break in work for Sherlock. This also meant a break in cases from John.

The nightmares came back.

They spent one night a week lying sleeplessly together in bed. John was getting worse and Sherlock didn't know how to help. He read every book he could get his hands on. Researched what could possibly be reverse-PTSD. John needed adrenaline and danger.

At night, John would almost curl so that his knees brushed his chest; his back to Sherlock. He'd just lay there and be very quiet. Sherlock knew he was awake and John knew he couldn't hide it. Neither acknowledged it though. This new barrier was slowly growing between them.

John's little showings of affection were slowing down and then waning away. Sherlock could feel their relationship deteriorating. That was not good. That was very not good.

"John?" Sherlock asked. It was the morning after another nightmare, they were both still in bed as the light crept up into the room.

"We've been together for almost a year."

"Yes we have."

"You're not thinking of changing that, are you?"

"I'm not going to break up with you and move out if that's what you're asking."

"I just had to make sure."

Sherlock was on his side facing John's back. He reached out a hand and rested it on John's shoulder. Sherlock moved closer and pressed himself against the smaller body, pressed feather light kisses onto his neck. He stopped and simply rested his cheek in John's hair; the plain smell of John filled his senses.

"I love you," Sherlock said. He didn't even think about it. It was true, of course, but they had never said it aloud before. He was immediately afraid that he had botched their entire relationship.

Instead, John rolled over and looked him in the eyes, "I love you, too."

Sherlock knew it was going to be alright. He knew that they were going to be alright.


End file.
